


Thurgilsons, vol. 3 - Lords of War

by MissGuided12



Series: Thurgilsons [3]
Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: 9th Century, Blood and Violence, Brotherly Love, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Psychopathology & Sociopathy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29872755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissGuided12/pseuds/MissGuided12
Summary: This is the third and final part of my backstory on Erik and Sigefrid Thurgilson.The year is 882, and the brothers' army has been crushed in their war against the Scots. This journey will take them from Northumbria to Frankia, and then to East Anglia where they take Beamfleot and Lunden.
Relationships: Erik Thurgilson & Sigefrid Thurgilson
Series: Thurgilsons [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2123280
Comments: 21
Kudos: 1
Collections: I would like that: A Sigefrid Collection





	1. Finished

It had been a great slaughter. An annihilating defeat. The most powerful army in the whole kingdom of Northumbria had met its end on that cursed spring evening of 882. 

King Aed had lured Sigefrid and Erik’s men across a river and into a valley where they had set their ambush, swarming the trapped Northmen from both sides. For hours, those nasty Scots kept coming at them, howling and shrieking like hordes of demons, climbing over their own dead. The valleys’ sides were too steep for the Norsemen to climb and reach high ground, and after a few failed attempts Sigefrid regrouped his warriors into shield walls, facing the enemy from both sides of the valley. 

Most of the shield wall held, but while dusk turned into the night, the Scots kept hacking at it, and men piled into corpses, one by one. Sigefrid fought like a berserker, until Erik pulled him back from the front ranks. He’d been bleeding profusely, but he’d barely noticed, raving at Erik to let him fight and die while his brother held him back. 

Erik led a portion of their men, the least injured ones, and together they broke through the Scots’ ranks, clearing the way for those who’d survived so they could fold back across the river and retreat to its southern bank. In the dark, some men drowned, weighted down by the weight of their amor in the strong currents, but Erik held onto Sigefrid to help him cross the cold stream. 

On the southern bank, those who’d made it closed ranks, waiting for the Scots to finish them off. But as darkness faded, they realized that the Scots had retreated to lick their own wounds, which were almost just as deep. 

There had been so many deaths. Whatever had limped back out of that cursed valley wasn’t an army at all. Barely a few hundred men, most of them injured, and all of them shaken from having felt death from so close. From having seen and smelled and heard so many of their own fall while they stood. 

Sigefrid lived, but he almost wished he did not. He could not wash the pungent taste of defeat from his mouth, like he was choking on it. It was over. They were finished, he thought, and he wished the Scots would have made him a corpse and sent him to Valhalla. And yet he lived, with his failure. With his disgrace. 

And Erik lived, too, but Erik was already looking forward. Calculating. Positioning the pieces in his mind, salvaging the salvageable. Erik just bounced back like that, and Sigefrid wished he knew where his brother found that kind of resilience. Men would come, Erik told him confidently, of that he was certain. Many of their warriors had scattered throughout the land, fleeing battle with their broken bodies. In time, they would heal, regather, and grow strong again. It was a setback, nothing more, Erik promised.

The men headed south, at a crawling pace, walking if they could, carried if they could not. A shadow of their past strength. The brothers worried that Kjartan and his men might strike from their stronghold, knowing that they would be helpless to fight back, so they journeyed clear of the busier roads until they re-entered the lands governed from Eoferwic. 

And then Haesten found them, himself a bruised and bleeding shadow of his past self. He’d walked for days. Eoferwic had fallen, he informed the brothers, prostrated on the ground from shame and exhaustion. The priests had risen, and the Christians of Eoferwic had followed their lead, and they’d toppled the Northmen left in charge. Haesten had lost them the city. Many Danes and Norsemen had been slaughtered, and the rest had fled. 

And Erik understood the full extent of his impulsive stupidity to pursue warfare on a whim, against his better judgement. And Sigefrid just felt rage. Pure, unadulterated rage at the three spinners who pulled the strings of his fate, and who laughed at his misery. Rage and hatred for those pitiful men in robes, weak and treacherous, who now danced in his hall around the corpses of his own people.

But then the envoys arrived, two priests who wished to speak with them, Northumbria’s fearsome war lord brothers and their handful of living men, tails between their legs, nursing their injuries in the forest. Sigefrid pulled out his sword mindlessly, and while his entire body ached, he welcomed the opportunity to at least slice himself a couple of churchmen. But Erik, freaking Erik stopped him in his track. 

“Let us hear them,” Erik told his brother.

“King Guthred sends his regards,” the first priest let out, his voice shaking from fear. His companion stood bravely by his side but could not control the tremor in his hands.

“What is a Guthred?!” Sigefrid roared.

“Northumbria’s king…” the priest announced, eyes down. “He was chosen by the most blessed Saint Cuthbert…”

Sigefrid looked at Erik, sword in hand, eyebrow raised, but Erik shook his head from side to side. 

“What does he want. Your king,” Erik scorned.

“To talk. His holy army marches from the west toward Eoferwic. He seeks an agreement with the brothers. A peaceful agreement.” 

“I’ll shove my peace up his arse,” Sigefrid muttered to himself. 

But Erik spoke up. “Tell... Guthred... that the brothers accept his invitation to talk.”

That was good enough of an answer for the priests, who did not wish to stay in Sigefrid’s proximity any longer than was strictly necessary, and who vanished as quickly as they’d come.

“TALK??!” Sigefrid lashed out at Erik. “What is there to talk about, brother?! We’re finished, we are too weak to fight.”

“So we buy ourselves time,” Erik nodded. “Let us hear what the fool has to say.”

“He should crush us while he can…” Sigefrid growled.

“So he is a fool. Let us walk to him and hear him out. Then we can decide how to take him down, while the men heal and find us.”

“Guthred,” Sigefrid spat out in disgust. 

“A Dane,” Erik thought. “And a Christian…”

Sigefrid threw his hands up. “Northumbria…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My description of Sig and Erik’s war with the Scots is basically the one described in the book (the Lords of the North), which provides more details about how obliterating that defeat truly was. In the show, Sigefrid’s character is a blend between two of the books’ characters: Sigefrid Thurgilson and Ivarr Ivarson (the grandson of Ragnar Lodbrok and Ubba’s nephew). Basically, Guthred dodged a massive bullet. Had they not been crushed, the brothers would have kicked his butt and easily retaken Eoferwic, and probably lit a few bon fires with the uprising priests.


	2. The Fool on the Throne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... this story has entered canon territory! From this point on, the story will include moments from the show, while expanding from it to focus on the brothers' perspective.
> 
> And it's a bit tricky!! I'm now painfully aware of how far the way I write the brothers may have drifted from canon, from the way they speak and act to the kinds of decisions they make. Hopefully there isn't too much of a clash! 
> 
> For much of my Thurgilsons backstory, I have given a more contemporary twist to Sigefrid and Erik's speech, which I assumed to be in Old Norse, up until they reached Northumbria, where they would have picked up the blend of Danish-Saxon spoken there. But it's hard to know for sure if I got it right, so I might hack at previous chapters until I'm happy with the way things sound.

The brothers sent out spies to learn more about this strange new king who had materialized out of thin air while their backs were turned. Guthred had come from Cumbraland, they found out. He was the son and heir of the Danish lord Hardicnut, and he’d been enslaved, then freed, and then chosen as king by a group of excited priests. The whole tale was rather odd. And now Guthred the Dane, who’d suddenly become a Christian, was leading a strange army of Danes and Norsemen, of pagans and Christians, under the banner of some silly Saxon dead man. They were marching on Eoferwic, and what was left of the brothers’ army stood in their path.

In the end, Sigefrid conceded to Erik that buying time was their best option. They marched their army to meet Guthred’s, a few hours west of Eoferwic. Sigefrid rode on North Fury, horns and all, and Erik’s horse was similarly decked out. The brothers believed in looking the part, and they looked decisively fearsome. As they approached, however, it became clear that Guthred had gathered about three times their numbers. While several of the new king’s followers were more priests than warriors, the brothers lacked the men to oppose him, and they wondered why Guthred wished to speak at all. 

They found the king under a tent, sitting between a priest and a lovely young woman. An angry-looking Dane stood by, hovering menacingly. That one was a warrior alright. The shifty king, however, did not strike them as the fighting type.

Erik smiled despite himself. 

“I’m Erik. This is my brother Sigefrid,” he said, as they sat down to face the king.

“I am king Guthred,” the man answered, very seriously.

“How did you enjoy your war with the Scots?” the warrior cut in, taunting the brothers. “You look tired,” he added, just to rub it in. 

The nerve. “You got a name?” Erik snarled at the warrior.

“I’m Uhtred of Bebbanburg. The Danes know me as Uhtred Ragnarson,” the man answered, cockily. 

Sigefrid warmed up instantly. “You are the man who killed Ubba.” Now that was his type of warrior.

“I am.” The man Uhtred seemed flattered by the recognition. 

“Thank you,” Sigefrid added. “We have benefitted greatly from Ubba’s death. He has not been mourned.”

And that was true. Ubba’s fall, and the power void it had created in Danish Northumbria, had inflated their ranks and paved the brothers’ way to Eoferwic. And now this fool Guthred was here with his rag tag group of whatever.

Erik thought along the same lines. “Danes, Northmen, Saxons, priests, pagans. A strange mix.” 

The king cut to the chase. “You might not know this, but, in your absence, all Danes in Eoferwic have either been killed, or fled.” 

Oh, they knew. The brothers both winced, instinctively seeking each other’s gaze. They’d lost the farm.

Guthred continued, having seemingly found himself a back bone. “Eoferwic will be mine. There will be no fight. None. Unless it’s with Sigefrid and Erik,” he emphasized, staring at both brothers. “I will fight you. And I will win.”

“Then why are you talking?” Sigefrid growled at the fool. 

The priest, who’d been silent until then, decided it was a good time to spout some nonsense. “The king is a man of the one true God. His preference is that we come to an agreement.”” 

Erik noticed Uhtred rolling his eyes, and could barely contain a smirk. “It will need to be a handsome agreement…” he pushed back.

Sigefrid backed him up. “Make your offer,” he asked defiantly. 

The king obliged. “In exchange for peace. In compensation for the loss of Eoferwic, I will offer you a fortress…” Guthred leaned toward the brothers, earnestly. “At Dunholm.”

The word felt like a slap. “Kjartan is at Dunholm,” Erik spat out.

“Yes. We will join together and we will take it. Kjartan’s land will become your land,” Guthred proposed. Which was madness.

Sigefrid had heard enough. “You offer nothing,” he exploded, rising to his feet. “Dunholm is too strong, it cannot be taken.” Not with priests, anyway.

The king stood up to meet Sigefrid at his level, flustered by the brothers’ reaction. “What I am offering you, Sigefrid, is life! Life as an Earl!” he squealed. 

Erik snickered. “The only way to defeat Kjartan is to deny him food and freedom. We, my brother and I, have considered this often.” And boy would it have been satisfying to starve that scum out of his stronghold… 

“You would need to surround him with men, with defenses, and deny him what he needs to live,” Erik continued, unsure if the king understood what he was proposing. 

“Yes, all your men would need to be fed and remain sober for months,” Sigefrid added, posturing aggressively. 

“It would take too much time, and too many men. Some hundreds of men,” Uhtred agreed. 

“But it can be done?” Guthred asked, unwilling to listen to reason. 

Uhtred opposed him. “There are other ways…” 

Which is when Erik realized that Uhtred’s way may not be advantageous to the brothers at all. Uhtred, a warrior of reputation, likely wished to fight them, and he knew he would win. And Dunholm was a better prize than death, so Erik pivoted, hard. He stood up, since everyone was already on their feet, and cut Uhtred off.

“It can be done, yes,” he said, confidently looking the king in the eye. If the king had the men and the stomach for it, he and Sigefrid had the know-how. It would just be a painful repeat of Alt Clut, is all.

Guthred smiled tentatively, like a child who’s been welcomed at the grown up’s table. “Then that is what we do.”

Uhtred pushed back. “Lord, this is not a plan that can be decided upon quickly. There are other ways.”

The priest made noises with his mouth again, this time angry noises about Uhtred needing to keep quiet. 

“I will say what’s on my mind and clearly!” Uhtred yelled back at the church man. “This plan can never work. There are other ways to defeat Kjartan,” he growled.

Sigefrid took Erik’s lead, knowing better than to oppose his brother in the middle of negotiations. All of a sudden, that poorly thought-out siege was a fantastic idea. It was also becoming clear that Uhtred was the man to neutralize. Sigefrid smelled division, and he decided to feed it. 

“It seems everyone is wrong but you, Uhtred Ragnarson,” he taunted the warrior, cheekily. Uhtred looked appropriately pissed off, which emboldened him. “Do we have a plan, king Guthred?” 

“Yes. We have a plan,” the kind answered in earnest. “And we have an agreement, do we not?” 

“We do,” Erik growled approvingly, locking eyes with his brother. They’d neutered Uhtred for now, and the foolish king was pleased. 

Sigefrid’s attention shifted to the pretty woman who seemed put on display as some potential peace cow. He’d noticed how Uhtred was standing very close to her, as if he was shielding her from him and his brother. High on his win, Sigefrid decided to twist the knife, just because he could.

“In addition to Dunholm…” he asked, “how many women will you be offering?”

The woman lifted her head from her embroidery. She was stunningly beautiful. Those lips. Those dark, soulful eyes. She shut Sigefrid down with a coolly confident smile. “None. Most definitely none.” 

That tong! Her defiance only raised Sigefrid’s interest. “Your hair is unbound, lady. You do not have a husband,” he said, in a low growl, and his forwardness was rewarded by Uhtred’s crestfallen expression. 

“My sister will marry when appropriate,” the king said, implying that the matter could be revisited. 

Sigefrid laughed wolfishly. The brothers’ luck finally seemed to be turning. They drank to peace, just the brothers and the king, leaving Uhtred to brood by his lady. Thanks to that delusional self-proclaimed king, Erik and Sigefrid had just bought themselves much needed time, and possibly a fortress and a wife. Those spinners sure were spinning today, Sigefrid thought.

And so what remained of the brothers’ army inflated the ranks of Guthred’s men, and together this strange procession marched toward Eoferwic. The pace was painstakingly slow, dictated by a group of priests and monks who carried some corpse in a box who’s name the brothers did not bother to learn. 

Sigefrid mustered sufficient patience to grin and bear it, his impatience offset by his reluctance to re-enter the city they’d lost as the followers of some delusional Christian fool. To sooth his irritation, he thought of the king’s sister.

“That Gisela is a sight for sore eyes!” he sighed at Erik, who rode by his side. 

“You like her!” Erik smiled. He approved. “She’s got beauty. And a tong…”

“I should request for Guthred to offer her to me...”

“As a wife?” Erik asked, surprised. He rode closer to his brother, intrigued by this turn of events. Sigefrid had always taken pride in living freely outside the shackles of marriage. 

“Uhtred would lose his mind!!” Sigefrid laughed. 

“You would court Gisela to spite Uhtred…” Erik asked, nonplussed. 

Sigefrid smiled smugly. 

“I like Uhtred,” Erik thought. “He is the only warrior in this sorry band.”

“Uhtred is an arrogant arse…” Sigefrid groaned.

“Then I must have a type!” Erik laughed, which amused his brother.

“You have the worst taste in warriors, brother!” Sigefrid cheered, slapping Erik’s shoulder too hard, right next to that stab wound he knew he was nursing.


	3. Walk of Shame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired by naps4bats' sweet, sweet final chapter of The Prisoner, in which uncle Sigefrid visits his favorite niece Ælfwynn and enjoys being the tenderly terrible role model that he is. 
> 
> "Sigefrid talks to the little children" is a fantastic sub-genre, and I could not resist adding my own piece to the literature.

The brothers rode through the gates of the city that was once theirs, a most humiliating affair. They found the place much changed. Crosses propping up everywhere. Monks and priests praying and chanting and processing excitedly. Shamelessly. Tauntingly. Erik felt nauseated, while Sigefrid stewed covertly. But now was not the time to make a scene. They knew they had to bid their time. 

The brothers found a room at the Crossed Swords tavern, by the city’s northern gates. They’d liked to patronize the place back when they controlled the city, although it was now owned by a couple of Saxons, and they were disappointed to find out that the food had suffered. 

“Does Cwenhild still work here?” Sigefrid inquired, but he found out she’d entered the orders and joined a nunnery somewhere in the south. After one too many meals of stale bread and sour ale, Sigefrid and Erik decided to try their luck at the new tavern across the street, where they found a few free stools at a table in a corner. They were waiting for a girl to bring them ale when they heard a squeal that ripped through the ambient racket of drunken patrons. 

“Erik Thurgilson!!!” a woman yelled, excitedly. 

Erik stretched his head to find out who was calling him. “Clothilde!!” he stood up on time to catch her as she attacked him with the weight of her embrace. 

“What brings your sad arse back to Eoforwic, my lord!” she laughed, patting his back, which hurt more than he let show. 

“It is good to see you safe, Clothilde. You work here?!” he asked. 

“This is my place!” she beamed proudly, hands on her hips. 

“It is?!” Erik laughed.

“I was not minded to take any more orders from grumpy men,” Clothilde smiled. “Now I take their silver. Sit! I’ll fetch the better wine.” 

"Should I room with Haesten tonight, brother," Sigefrid asked Erik once Clothilde had turned her back, which he found surprisingly tactful.

"No need," Erik shook his head.

“Erik, what have you done to your pretty face?” Clothilde tsked him, once she’d returned with a couple of bottles of Frankish wine. Sigefrid gave Erik a pointed look. Erik was sporting a brand new gash on the side of his forehead, courtesy of a close encounter with a Scottish sax in the shield wall.

“Yours looks the same. But you’ve filled up!” Erik teased her right back. Clothilde had been a skinny twig, but her shape had grown more curvaceous. More womanly. “It suits you,” he winked.

“Hands off, my friend,” she threatened playfully. “You do not wish to be thrown out of this fine institution before you try the lapin aux herbes!”

“Lapin?” Erik wondered.

“Rabbit…” she shrugged. “Saxon words make meat sound like vermin.”

“Is there no man around here to guard your honour against my brother?” Sigefrid interrupted, looking around before settling his gaze squarely on Clothilde’s chest. He’d grown distractingly horny, he realized.

“I keep all my husbands in the cellar,” Clothilde clapped back, unfazed. “So you follow this Guthred now,” she wondered. “A Christian…” she added, looking at Sigefrid with a puzzled expression.

“For now…” was all Erik could manage to say. Sigefrid stared into his cup of wine.

“What happened up north?” she asked, concerned.

“The demon Scots happened,” Sigefrid growled, turning visibly irate.

“How was it… here?” Erik questioned her back, almost too afraid to ask. 

“Chaos…” Clothilde shuddered. “Eoferwic went mad… The priests meant to purge the city of all pagans. Women and children too. Lots of us from the old days died…” she let out quietly, referring to the people who’d followed Knud and the brothers to Eoferwic. As a Christian, Clothilde had been spared.

“Many pagans turned to God. Or they say they did. Everyone is a good Christian now,” she said, sarcastically.

“Was the church attacked,” Erik asked. “Did our men fight back?” 

“Barely,” she shook her head. “The slaughter was sudden.”

Erik nodded. Haesten had told them the same.

Sigefrid decided he'd heard enough. “Do you keep any women here?” he snapped at Clothilde. 

She shook her head from side to side. “At the end of the street,” she pointed with her chin. “But most of the good ones are gone. The priests are pressuring them into marriage.”

At this point Sigefrid was resigned to accept his fate. “I’ll have an ugly one,” he groaned. “They all look the same flat on their belly.”

“Ask for Gudrun,” Clothilde said, nonchalantly. Which he did, and he was grateful for the tip. 

“Someone is in a pleasant mood,” Clothilde snickered, turning her attention back to Erik as Sigefrid left.

“Oh, he's worse when he loses at tafl,” Erik answered in jest. 

“You don't just let him win?” Clothiled wondered. 

“No need,” Erik laughed. “He only plays me when I’m drunk.” It felt good to see a friendly face, he thought.

As soon as they and their men were settled, Erik went looking for Aedre. He questioned a few priests he did not recognize, many of whom had recently flocked to the city, but the men ignored him petulantly. So Erik walked into the church beside the great hall, the one Aedre had patronized, and he asked for father Cenhelm.

Erik’s entrance startled the handful of men in robe he found gathered around a large table, penning letters and what not. One reached for a shovel, another clutched a knife. Erik ignored them both and questioned the oldest man in the group, who seemed less skittish. 

“He is long gone,” the man answered placidly. “He left right after the city was reclaimed.” 

Erik shuddered at the thought. The man continued, giving Erik a pointed look. “He feared that the brothers would exact revenge on the church for the uprising.”

“How wise,” Erik grunted, ever so threateningly. “And his woman, has she gone with him?” 

“The dark-haired witch?” a younger priest asked, signing himself. “The one with the green eyes?”

The older priest scolded him. “The lady Aedre is a good Christian.” He turned to Erik, dubious. “What do you want with her?"

“Reassurance that she is safe,” Erik answered candidly, which appeased the man somewhat.

“She left with him. They went south. Far south,” the priest answered, putting emphasis on the last two words.

He scrutinized Erik’s face for a moment. “She was theirs once, wasn't she? You serve the brothers?”

“In a way,” Erik shrugged. 

“The man Sigefrid, he despises priests. What does he want with this Guthred?” the priest wondered.

“He’s enthralled by Saint Osbert,” Erik answered sarcastically. 

“Cuthbert,” the man corrected him, unamused.

Erik waved his hand, unbothered. He was going to walk out, but then he turned back to face the priests, suddenly flustered. “Sigefrid despises priests, yet he let them live. That is more mercy than what you and your brothers granted to the Danes you slaughtered.”

He did not wait for an answer and abandoned the men in robe to their silly letters. Once he’d breathed cool air and calmed down, Erik was finally able to appreciate how Aedre’s conversion had most likely saved her life. As the companion of a pagan lord, she would have likely met a gruesome death in the uprising, or possibly worse. He also recognized father Cenhelm’s good sense to leave rather than await a vengeful backlash. Had they ridden back with their full army, Erik would have been powerless to contain Sigefrid’s rage. Priests would have roasted. Maybe Aedre’s instincts had been right all along, he acknowledged begrudgingly. That man had been her path to safety. 

Deep in his thoughts, Erik made his way back to the room he and Sigefrid shared at the ale house, where he found his brother in the company of a trio of women, each in a different state of undress. So he headed back downstairs to grab a drink with Haesten and Dagfinn. 

“He’s not sharing, lord?” Haesten asked Erik with a hungry look.

“I escaped before he had the chance to offer!!” Erik laughed.

While the brothers figured out their next step, Erik did what he could to placate their men, many of whom were on edge. They were good men, loyal and well trained, but most had lost friends and family at the hands of the Christians, and several had mixed feelings about following Guthred. 

For Sigefrid, the worst was to watch the fool hold court in his old hall, an entirely new level of sting. The place was full of familiar faces too, mostly women and slaves and servants who’d survived the slaughter. Many adorned a crucifix around their neck now, which added insult to injury. 

Sigefrid was sitting in the big hall, ruminating dark thoughts while trying to ignore the endless flock of priests, when he noticed a child staring at him who might have been three or four.

“I know who you are,” the child said, looking at him intently.

Sigefrid was trying to decide what leg to kick her with, when she added, “you are my father.”

That startled him. “How do you call your mother,” he growled at the child.

“Mother,” she answered patiently. 

Sigefrid stared at the girl, unimpressed. The child thought hard for a second before clarifying, “Sverria?”

“You are Sverria’s pup!!” Sigefrid laughed. 

Sverria had been one of his favorites, among the pack of women he kept around his hall at its heyday. She’d followed Knud, and then the brothers, ever since Synningthwait, and Sigefrid was vaguely aware that she’d birthed a couple of pups along the way. 

“How is she?”

“She is angry,” the girl answered very seriously, for this was a concerning matter. “Our cock wakes too early.”

“Mine rises early too,” Sigefrid said, straight-faced.

She looked around the room skeptically. “You do not have a cock.”

He smirked. “I do! It’s got a great beard! You want to see it?””

The child emitted a delighted squeal. “Cocks do not have beards, silly!!”

Sigefrid was surprised to find the sound that came out of the small critter delightful. “Maybe your mother wishes to borrow my cock again!” he proposed. 

The girl frowned at his stupidity. “We haaaave one. We need more hens.”

“I see.” Sigefrid noticed the large, clumsily carved cross hanging very visibly around the child’s neck, and was saddened by it. Sverria was a Dane and a pagan, as far as he knew. 

“Are you a Cristian?” he asked.

“A what?” the child asked, confused.

“Do you pray to god,” he rephrased, trying to keep his sarcasm in check. 

“I do,” she said, very seriously. She whispered, in a knowing tone. “If you pray god, the men in gray do not come in the night.” 

Sigefrid felt the crushing weight of it. His failure to protect his own people from overexcited Christians and blood-thirsty priests. He felt a twisting discomfort in his gut, a sourness in his mouth. He looked at the girl, this child he’d fathered, and he gestured for her to come closer. 

The child approached, very seriously, and he grabbed her waist and plopped her down on his lap. He reached for the knife he carried around his belt, pulled it out, and handed her the weapon. It was a sharp, deadly blade, a finely crafted thing that had been passed down from his mother’s grandfather. 

“Take this,” he said. “I’ll show you how to pray.” 

He placed the knife’s pummel into the child’s tiny hands, and she held it, clumsily. 

“Careful,” he said, “you could cut your teeth with that blade,” he warned her. 

She laughed again. “You’re silly! Knifes do not cut teeth.”

Sigefrid shrugged. “You’ll need to take my word for it…” He held her hands steadily around the knife. “This is how you pray,” he said, in a low growl. “Odin, I beg you for the strength to strike down my enemies!”

The child stared at him, wide-eyed. 

He pulled her little chin up toward his face and held it there. “When you lie at night, you keep this blade by your bed,“ he said, repositioning the weapon between her hands. “And if the gray men come, you stab them in the eye with your claw!!” he gestured, pushing her little hand forward to poke at imaginary foes. 

The child was now grinning from ear to ear, and Sigefrid thought that maybe there was hope for that one. 

“Like a cat!” she squealed, exploding in giggles. 

“Like a lion!!” he roared, laughing too. 

The child suddenly turned serious. “Are you a bad man?” she wondered, tilting her head to the side.

“Yes,” Sigefrid answered, almost reflexively. 

“Does that make me bad?” the child asked, worriedly.

“You, my friend,” he nodded at her, “at the gray men’s worst nightmare!!” He picked her up and sent her on her way. “Off you go. Protect your mother,” he said, grinning despite himself.


	4. Alliance Shmalliance

The brothers had been edging their bets, expecting little from their precarious alliance with a king whose opinion was easily swayed by whomever captured his ear. Erik and Sigefrid had quietly sent Dagfinn to dig up the hoard they’re buried into the woods outside the city wall. They’d also enlisted Sverria to retrieve some of the silver they’d hidden in some remote corners of the great hall which had escaped the priests’ scrutiny. 

Half their fleet, which they’d left at the Eoferwic quays when they rode north to fight the Scots, still remained where they’d left it, the rest having been stolen by opportunists. They placed enough men to guard the ships during day time, and at night they had men load them discretely under the cover of darkness. 

They’d also sent out scouts to find and rally warriors who’d remained loyal to them, from the Humber in the south to the edge of Kjartan’s land up in the north. A few came from Synningthwait, and two small war bands travelled from the west. In total, around 50 fighting men trickled into Eoferwic to serve them, which wasn’t a huge number, but they were good warriors, real spear- and sword-Danes. 

Sigefrid and Erik were pondering their next move when they heard the rumour that was spreading through the city like wild fire. Guthred had gotten rid of Uhtred. He’d sold his army’s commander to a slaver to secure an alliance with Aelfric of Bebbanburg. Who was, somehow, Uhtred’s uncle, and also his enemy. A rather unsettling turn of events.

“Gisela will be free to pursue,” Erik noted. “Once she is… over it. She might need time.”

Sigefrid scorned. “Do I look like I’m in need of a woman who squeals Uhtred’s name while I’m riding her?” 

“You’re getting choosy,” Erik teased his brother.

Sigefrid was mildly offended. “I can be as much of a choosy bastard as you can be, brother." He hesitated for a moment. "Speaking of choosy, did you seek out your woman Aedre?!” he finally asked. Sigefrid had been wondering about Aedre, but he'd been hesitant to question Erik who’d been so evasive about her. 

“She left,” Erik answered. “She made it out of Eoferwic.” 

Erik had never mentioned the miscarriage, not even to Sigefrid. It still felt too raw to let his mind go there. And he had definitely not mentioned the priest because, knowing Sigefrid, nothing good could have come from this. 

Sigefrid gave Erik a strange look. “You should send out for her and the pup.” 

Erik nodded without speaking, and Sigefrid did not push. Whatever had happened, Erik seemed to be moving on, and they were moving forward.

But the truth was that Uhtred’s enslavement shocked the brothers. That Guthred could swap a sworn pagan ally for an uncommitted Christian one made them uneasy. They, too, were obviously disposable. They also were unsure they wanted to throw themselves at a military campaign without Uhtred’s balancing influence. Uhtred understood battle, and now Guthred’s mind would be poisoned by the smooth-talking priests who swarmed him like bees. 

Then news travelled that Aelfric was walking 200 spear men to Eoferwic, and that made the brothers even more nervous. They doubted that Aelfric would take kindly to them settling in Dunholm. In the past, the fidgety lord of Bebbanburg had preferred Kjartan’s cruel but unambitious ruling to theirs. Even if they followed Guthred now, Aelfric was probably just as averse to having the brothers south of his border. Would they be next in the slavers’ cart, they wondered?

So the brothers planned their exit. Ship by ship, they sent their float discretely down the Umber, crewed with some of their warriors. Within the city, they kept their men armed, reasonably sober and ready to march, and they walked around at all times with a close personal guard. Haesten in particular remained shifty and unwilling to go anywhere without at least a handful of warriors. The memory of behind tortured for entertainment by a group of Saxons was still fresh in his mind, and Haesten, above all else, liked to stay alive. 

When Aelfric and his men paraded through the gates of Eoferwic, the brothers were already one foot out the door. They welcomed the broody Saxon lord into the great hall along with Guthred’s court, for good measure, but their mind was at least half made about abandoning this sinking ship. 

Aelfric barely acknowledged Erik when he walked into the hall with his spear men, giving him a frosty nod of recognition. In response, Sigefrid gave Aelfric a broad, taunting smile. Erik was right. Sigefrid did not like that pissy, sour man at all.

Guthred preached about their alliance, and he rambled on about their plan to form a common front to besiege Kjartan, but Aelfric cut him short.

“How did he die?” he asked Guthred pointedly, inquiring about where he might find Uhtred’s head. 

Sigefrid took pleasure in letting Aelfric know that Uhtred’s head was still very much attached to his shoulders. 

As expected, the information was poorly received by the lord of Bebbanburg, who’s face got delightfully twitchy. “Then he’s still alive?”

Guthred sank deeper into his throne than Sigefrid thought was physically possible, shifting like a caged animal.

“For the siege of Dunholm, we agreed 200 spears for his head,” Aelfric let out, apoplectic. 

Guthred and his priest made some excuses for the king’s fickleness, but that did little to stop Aelfric from throwing a fit about Uhtred’s unsevered head. 

The priest, eager to appease Aelfric’s outburst, proposed food and rest for his tired troops, and when that failed, he hinted at throwing Gisela his way, like the good peace cow she was born to be. But the foolish priest had chosen the wrong peace cow. 

“Lord Aelfric,” Gisela addressed him with a mixture of defiance and mischief, “you will have gathered by now that my brother is part fool.” She stood up, nervous but determined. “You should have nothing more to do with him,” she said, throwing her brother to the wolves and walking away from the unravelling disaster before Guhtred could stop her.

“My sister has humor. And a tongue!” Guhtred yelled as she left, but the damage was done. 

“We leave tomorrow! My business here is over,” Aelfric barked before storming out of the great hall, his spear men in tow.

Now that was quality entertainment! “Goobye Lord Aelfric!” Sigefric bellowed cheerfully at the departing lord. “So nice to meet you! Enjoy the long walk home to Bebbanburg!!”

Erik thought he'd heard enough, and he decided it was time to pull the plug. He stood up, addressing the king. “Guthred, by saving Uhtred, what you now have is a chaos of your own making.” 

Sigefrid perked up at that delightful word. “Chaos!” he echoed, rising behind his brother. 

“If Aelfric is not with us,” Erik continued, “then the ground has shifted. We’ll take no part in the siege of Dunholm.” 

Erik signaled with his head for their guard to follow, and he, Sigefrid and their men walked briskly toward the hall’s doors.

“Erik, we must! We have an agreement, we have plans!!” Guthred shouted in a panick as the brothers walked out.  


“That will no longer involve the brothers,” Sigefrid growled. “No Dunholm means we must again fight for our wealth!” he announced grimly to the flustered king as they left the premises. And that was something Sigefrid most definitely looked forward to. 

Within the hour, the brothers had rallied their army and saddled their horses, and they were prepared to march out of Eoferwic, leaving Guthred weakened and devoid of allies. 

Sigefrid’s excitement could barely be contained. They were leaving the priests, the politics, and the burdens of city ruling behind, and going back to what he knew he did best. Bringing down the fear and chaos.


	5. King of the Hill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a small cameo from Alva, a wonderful character introduced by naps4bat in her awesome modern AU fiction about the brothers (Rushing Water and Return of the Kid). 
> 
> It is canon that Alva is the only one who ever captured Sigefrid’s cold, cold heart ;)

The brothers and their men travelled south and settled along the Humber river that separated Northumbria from Mercia, and whose estuary led to the Ouse that flowed to Eoferwic. They set up an open camp which they relocated at will, unburdened by walls. They were flexible and light on their feet. A camp was more exposed than a fortress, evidently, but there was little to fear when you were the most dangerous thing that lurked around the corner. 

From their camp, the brothers did as they pleased. They crewed the six ships they had left with heavily armed warriors, and with this small fleet they took control of the river, imposing a toll on passing merchants and depriving Eoferwic of much needed commerce. They also raided Saxon villages that surrounded Eoferwic with glee, starving the city of most of the harvest that would have supported it through winter. Sigefrid embraced the chaotic aspect of it, but there was method to their madness. Village by village, the brothers established their dominance, spooking away Saxons and Christians who would have been loyal to Guthred, eroding the king’s support. Once a village was tamed, the Thurgilsons imposed a danegeld in exchange for their protection. They made good silver that way, ensuring a modicum of order while undermining Guthred’s authority. As they spread their influence like a cancer, the brothers chocked Eoferwic, leaving the king weak and isolated behind his high walls.

Erik and Sigefrid had learned the hard way that ruling was thankless. They strove to be just and fair, to foster peace, growth and prosperity for all tribes. They had taken great casualties to keep their territory safe, and yet they had been betrayed by some of the very people they were meant to protect as soon as their backs were turned. It had been a sobering experience. Nevertheless, Sigefrid knew his brother wanted Eoferwic back. Erik longed to build something, to take back their rightful place at the epicenter of Northumbrian politics. So Sigefrid was raiding and Erik was scheming, and the long game they were playing was paying off. Men were joining their camp, not too many, but they arrived steadily from Cumbraland, from Loidis, from Synningthwait. Some even travelled from Danelaw. Sooner than later, they would have the numbers to march on Eoferwic and besiege it. But while they waited for Guthred’s reign to fail, Sigefrid enjoyed being the one who lurked in the dark. The one who took, who destroyed and ran, leaving whatever he left behind as someone else’s problem. To Sigefrid, the year of careless freedom that had resulted from their crushing defeat against the Scots had been a welcomed accident. 

Sigefrid found camp life to be a joy, and he lived like a king. At 32, he was embracing his very own version of maturity. He had a large comfortable tent, set in the middle of the camp, a wide bed covered in soft pelts and furs, and a few women to share it with, on rotation. Strong Danish stock, none of those Saxon wussies. Not too many women, 3 or 4 at most, fewer than he’d grown accustomed to. He appreciated the intimacy of a smaller choice of partner, and found joy in curating more meaningful bonds. He was, he thought, turning into an old man, a man of habits. His favorite woman was Alva, a spirited blond, who was as much a menace in the shield wall as she was a demon under the furs. Together, they’d grown… comfortable. 

Erik was amused to watch his brother succumb to the traps of commitment. He did not say much, but he’d look at Sigefrid and Alva with a smug smile that Sigefrid wished to wipe off his brother’s face. Sigefrid was careful not to close the door to other women entirely, reputation and all. He’d even humped one or two of Erik’s women, to make a point, but disappointingly Erik did not make too much of a fuss about it. Erik hadn’t really latched onto anyone since Eoferwic. Sigefrid thought his brother needed a wife, badly, but that he was too picky for his own good. 

Winter came and went. When the warmth finally decided to stay, even unlucky Haesten found domestic bliss. Or at least he said he’d met some woman in a village a short riding distance from their camp. But Sigefrid was not fully buying that Haesten was not buying it. 

“Off to hump your whore again?” Sigrefrid teased Haesten as he mounted his horse to leave camp one evening.

“My woman, lord,” Haesten corrected him, with just a touch of sarcasm. 

“How much does she ride for, your woman? Earning silver on her back in her village, eh?” Sigefrid snickered. “Why not bring her here? Do I not pay you enough?”

“She’s safer there, lord. Far, faaaaaar from my lord Erik’s bed,” Haesten groaned. Because Erik always snatched the good ones, and the bastard didn’t even need to try. 

Erik had status and reputation as a warrior, and silver and charm and looks. He was obviously the sweeter, more manageable brother, and he was annoyingly available. Not even a wife or a steady concubine. Stupid Erik was a total chick magnet, and after him, the pickings were slimmer. 

“It’s the faven,” Sigefrid chuckled. “You should get one too.”

Haesten scoffed. “In time, lord. In time. I am expected,” he emphasized. Haesten pressed his horse’ flanks with his knees, and the beast jumped forward in response to its rider’s eagerness to escape unwanted attention. 

Erik chose that time to approach his brother. “Sigefrid, why don't you just leave him be?” he scolded him.

“No, no, no! I am minded to get to the bottom of this. I refuse to believe the bastard is getting it for free.” 

Haesten’s point was valid. Erik had become a hot commodity in the camp. The most eligible thing to snatch. Sigefrid was popular too, but he attracted a different type of women. The more reckless ones, those who enjoyed raw power mixed with a touch of danger. But the calculating ones always made a bee-line for his brother. Gold diggers, Haesten liked to call them, the ones who salivated after a man’s hoard, though he admittedly found Erik’s position enviable.

Haesten returned at dusk the next day with a swagger in his step. He found the brothers drinking ale with Dagfinn by a camp fire and decided to join them. 

Immediately, Sigefrid decided to pick things up where they’d left off. “Back already!” he cheered. “Was she overflowing with other men’s seed?”

“That’s funny,” Haesten retorted, sarcastically. “You think you two are doing so well with the women, eh?” he sneered at the brothers, conveniently changing the focus of conversation. 

“What are you saying?” Sigefrid growled. 

Haesten gave him a mean smile. “They talk. About you. About all of us. The women. I’ve heard them…”

“You spy on the women now?” Erik asked, perturbed.

“I spy on everyone,” Haesten shrugged. “You,” he pointed at Erik, “have a target on your back.”

“I do?” Erik asked, surprised. 

“The kitchen maids are counting their weeks, trying to catch your pup. They’re out for blood. I’d be careful where I put my baby earl seed if I were you,” he advised. 

“That is terrifying…” Sigefrid shuddered.

“And you,” he pointed at Sigefrid with a smirk, “word has it that you’re going soft…”

“SOFT!!!?” Sigefrid roared, glancing down at his breeches in disbelief. 

“Alva’s all…” Haesten made his voice nasal and pitchy, _“Oh, Sigefrid loooooooved me all night!! Agaaaaiiiin… And then we cuddled…”_ he batted his eyes.  
“And the others are like, _‘bitch, you lie!! Sigefrid pulls my hair, he bends me on my knees and slams hard against my arse, and then he turns around and starts snoring!!’”_  
“But then Alva’s all…” Haesten looked down and whispered, at once sultry and demure, _“well with me he’s different…”_. He laughed, looking Sigefrid in the eye. “Your reputation is croaking.” 

Erik almost died laughing. Sigefrid had nothing. It was unclear how much of Haesten’s drivel was true and how much was made up, but he did not care to find out.

“And me?” Dagfinn asked.

“Not much to talk about, is there?” Haesten snickered. 

“Women like me…” Dagfin replied, a bit peeved.

“But do they like you with their legs open or closed, Dag boy?” Haesten teased him.

Before Dagfinn could think of a comeback, Sigefrid cut him off. He asked Haesten, grumpily. “And what do the womenfolk say about you?” 

“Oh. They like my siiiiilveeer,” Haesten rolled his eyes. He turned to Erik, “I do not understand what you do to women with your magical cock, but they are fighting like rabid bitches over it…”

“Have you tried not calling them rabid bitches?” Erik asked pointedly.

“Oh, you should hear what they call me…”

That night, Sigefrid went to seek Alva. Again. He tugged at her hair a bit, for good measure, because he knew she liked it best when he kept it just a little unsafe, but then he made sweet love to her and he did not even think about his reputation. Bitches could talk. 

Erik was a bit perturbed by the gossip though. He thought of himself as someone who chose, and his status afforded him a wide choice. It felt odd to think of himself as being chosen. Or trapped. Pups just happened, he knew that. They were a part of life. There were the ones you wished for. The ones who bore your name, whom you raised as family and married off with a dowry. Fate had kept those out of Erik’s path. And then there were the others, those you did not plan for or commit to, the ones women whisked away and raised conveniently out of sight. There were also the ones you never found out about, born from some untraceable ale house mixture you sometimes added to. Erik wondered how many pups he’d fathered, and he realized he had no real way of finding out. Probably more than Haesten, he chuckled. Fewer than Sigefrid, definitely. He recalled the servants and slaves his brother had filled with pups back in their home village. The brats were just a part of the landscape, like the horses and the sheep, barely an afterthought. He’d made one too, he remembered with regret, and he still dreamed of that child sometimes. That one had gotten away. Or Erik had, because fate had pulled him in a different direction. 

It was the lot of women, Erik thought. To look after those who grew in their belly. Just like it was the lot of men to make heirs to whom they afforded protection, and to be kept in the dark about those who came from them and looked like them but knew nothing of them. Despite Erik’s understanding of the way things were, the thought of camp women fighting over his seed as leverage to gain status gave him pause. Or was Haesten just messing with him to get more tail? Regardless, Erik thought he probably should cut back on the randoms. He was 29, not a young man anymore, and it was more than time he found himself a wife and made some heirs. 

While Erik questioned his life choices, Sigefrid was unquestionably happy with his. He’d risen up early that morning to answer nature’s call. Alva was asleep in his bed, and the cold drizzle that fell on the sleepy, peaceful camp had turned into a heavy downpour. Sigefrid took a piss outside his tent, looking forward to a lazy rainy day. He might spend a couple of hours in bed riding his woman, maybe have smoked trout and ale with Erik by the camp fire, plan their next route of raids pushing further into the north... It would be a cosy, uneventful day.


	6. That Tent in the Center

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I'm sure you know what's coming, but yeah... it's a rough one.

Sigefrid’s train of thoughts was brutally interrupted by grunts and shouts coming from inside his tent. Coming from his woman…

He rushed back inside to fight off whatever there was to fight off, and found an intruder slamming Alva’s face into a wood post that supported the tent structure, which knocked her out cold. The brave thing had obviously fought the man off, judging by the sledgehammer she dropped when her head hit the hard wood. Sigefrid pounced with furry while his mind slowly caught up with his body. 

Because the intruder was Uhtred. Uhtred Ragnarson. The Dane-slayer. In his tent, attacking his woman. Why or how, Sigefrid did not know and he could not spare the time to make sense of it. Uhtred had escaped slavery and returned to Northumbria, clearly, and now his beef was with Sigefrid and Erik, somehow. And Uthred was out to kill SIgefrid, that much was obvious too. But whether he was there for himself or for Guthred or for someone else, that was unclear. Regardless of Uthred’s motives though, Sigefrid was going to crush the punk if it was the last thing he did.

Quickly, Sigefrid landed a hard fist on Uthred’s face. But Uthred hit Sigefrid back with a kick to the stomach, shoved him backward onto his bed, pulled a sax out of his sword belt and kneeled on top of Sigefrid, pinning him down. Uhtred pushed the knife toward Sigefrid’s face but Sigefrid fought him back, digging his teeth into Uhtred’s arm and ripping his flesh until he dropped the weapon. Then Sigefrid regained the upper hand, landing a series of hard punches on Uhtred’s head. Sigefrid lunged to grab the sword he kept by his bedside, but Uhtred tripped and wrestled him, until Sigefrid managed to pin Uhtred down again. 

“You want to kill me, Uhtred Ragnarson?” Sigefrid growled while choking his opponent, still confused by this sudden turn of event. 

“That was the plan...” Uhtred let out, struggling to speak through the pressure against his neck.

“You don’t like me? I can be a funny man,” Sigefrid retorted, sticking his thumbs into Uhtred’s eyes. 

Uhtred pulled Sigefrid’s ear in retaliation, which got the big man off his chest, but Sigefrid was quick to counter-attack. He slammed Uthred’s head against his bed box, which dizzied him. Sigefrid took the opportunity to stand up and land a few hard kicks in Uhtred’s gut, knocking the wind out of him. He finally managed to grab his sword while Uhtred crawled on all four like the low life that he was.

Sigefrid went for the kill, slamming his blade down onto Uhtred’s body with all the strength and rage he could muster, but the bastard jumped out of range at the last second, fast like the wind, and Sigefrid’s blade got stuck into the bed box from the sheer force of the blow. Before Sigefrid could pull the blade free, Uhtred grabbed the axe he’d been eyeing and brought it down on Sigefrid’s sword hand with one swift motion, cutting it right off.

Sigefrid fell on his knees, holding onto his right arm with his left hand while yelling in shock and horror. Alva, who’d regained consciousness, raced out of the tent, yelling at the top of her lungs to alert the camp that they were under attack.

Uhtred dragged Sigefrid out of his tent and forced him to kneel into the mud under the pouring rain, holding his sax against Sigefrid’s throat. The knife that had just cut off his hand. Two of Uthred’s men joined his side, swords out, while Sigefrid and Erik’s warriors poured out of their tents, awoken by the screams, not yet in armor, having grabbed whatever weapon they could find before rushing to the scene.

“Stand clear. Let them see me, let them all see me!!” Uhtred yelled at his men. 

Warriors kept gathering under the rain like angry bees swarming out of a kicked hive, surrounding Sigefrid’s tent at a safe distance. Erik stood in front of the men, soaked from the rain in his undershirt and breeches, sword in hand. 

“Erik, I swear I’ll kill him and be damned what follows!!” Uhthred yelled threateningly. Which would mean certain death, as there were three of them in a camp packed with Erik’s warriors. 

“No one is to move!” Erik screamed, stretching both arms outwards to hold his men back. “No one! Stand still!”

Sigefrid moaned, asking for blood. “Kill him… kill him… kill him…”

But Erik ignored his brother’s plea. “No one is to as much as raise their sword!” he threatened. “Uhthred. You will spare him,” he yelled decisively. 

“Steady your men!” Uhtred yelled again at Erik, nervously. 

“Back. Hold,” Erik ordered again. “Uthred, you will spare my brother. Name your price,” he commanded. 

But Sigefrid wanted none of this. “Kill him, Erik. Kill him, I say!! Erik!! Haesten!”

“Sigefrid… There will be another day. Another time,” Erik replied, in an attempt to appease him, but Sigefrid was in no mood for peace. 

“Kill him!!!” 

Erik, however, was in no mood for death. “Uhtred. Name your price. It will be done. I swear. I give you my word,” he promised, his plea becoming desperate as he watched his brother weakening visibly from the loss of blood. “Kill him, and you kill yourself,” Erik added, threateningly.

This was no way to negotiate, Erik knew. He’d just laid it all out, that he would give up anything for his brother’s life. Then again, Erik wasn’t negotiating. He was begging.

“Your word?” Uhtred growled back at him. 

“I swear. Believe me,” Erik repeated. He stuck his sword into the thick slippery mud and let go of it, as a show of good will. 

Uhtred’s reply came fast. “You will take one ship and you will leave Northumbria. One ship. You will not return.”

Erik did not hesitate. “For my brother’s life. This is done,” he agreed. 

Uhtred grunted in agreement. He released Sigefrid’s neck from his deadly grasp, leaving him to moan and wobble on his knees until Erik caught him in his arms, rushing to his side, indifferent to the threat of Uhtred and his men. At that moment, Uhtred could have skewered both brothers with his sword, as they crouched into the mud, drenched and defenseless, and it would have been the end of them. But Uhtred kept his word, and he let Erik tend to his brother’s injury. 

Erik pulled his brother onto his feet, and Sigefrid still found it in him to turn back to Uhtred and rage. “I swear that I will kill you, Uhtred Ragnarson! This is not finished!” 

“I see you are a funny man,” Uhtred snickered, taunting him back. 

But Erik had no time for threats and insults. He dragged Sigefrid toward the open fire pit that was burning by his brother’s tent, held out Sigefrid’s injured arm, stuck its extremity into the flames and held it there to cauterize the wound. The stench of the burning flesh mixed with Sigefrid’s ear shattering cries of pain would haunt his dreams for years to come. 

Uhtred disappeared into Sigefrid’s tent to retrieve the sword he’d dropped. More of his men, and a few women, came out from hiding. Haesten and two dozen warriors escorted them outside the edge of the camp, under strict instructions to keep the peace and send the intruders on their way. The warriors could have slaughtered Uhtred’s small party easily, but Erik had given his word and he did not give his word lightly. 

“Who sent you?” Haesten asked Uhtred, dejectedly. “Guthred?”

“Alfred of Wessex,” Uhtred let out with just a touch of disdain.

That was unexpected. “What business does Alfred have with Northumbria?” Haesten wondered. Didn’t Alfred have enough trouble at his own borders without sending men to meddle in the north?

“Alfred wants Guthred on the throne,” Uhtred shrugged. 

“Good luck with that,” Haesten spat out. 

Erik carried his brother to his bed, and for the next few days he barely left his sight. He could not find his brother’s severed hand anywhere in the tent, and he realized Uhtred must have taken it as a trophy of sort, which he found sickening.  
Erik had promised to leave Northumbria, and he intended to keep his word. But if the brothers were to drop everything they’d built for the sake of Sigefrid’s life, then they would do nothing that would compromise Sigefrid’s chances of survival. So Erik insisted that Sigefrid needed to stabilize before they took to sea. As far as he was concerned, Uhtred could drag his arse back to their camp and fight him man on man if he disagreed. 

For days, Sigefrid’s mind wobbled in and out of consciousness. He’d lost a lot of blood, and he was too weak to eat, so Erik fed him broth with a spoon. Despite his best efforts to keep the wound clean, the stump swelled up, and within days it started oozing pus. So Erik cauterized the wound again with hot iron. And then he did it a third time. And then the chills came, and for several days Erik doubted that his brother would make it. So he slaughtered his favorite horse as a gift to Thor, and he kept bathing and feeding his brother, until the chills left his body and Sigefrid regained some sort of appetite. Once the stump stopped oozing and once Sigefrid managed to keep his food down and once he’d regained enough strength to walk around, they started to organize and pack. 

Not everyone from the camp could or even wished to fit onto that one ship, that much was obvious. The women, their children, and some older warriors were to sail back to Synningthwait where a large number of Danes lived peacefully and would welcome them. The brothers would take 30 men and sail a single ship to Frankia. Haesten would take the remaining warriors to Danelaw, and remain in England as the brothers’ hand, eyes and ears, honoring Erik’s promise to Uhtred to stay clear of Northumbria. 

Alva begged to be on the brothers’ ship, wherever they were headed. She’d been hovering around Sigefrid like a quiet shadow, and he’d ignored her when he was at his best, and screamed and thrown things at her if she dared get too close. She took it in stride, somehow, waiting for Sigefrid to finally let her be by his side, but that moment never came. Sigefrid had been her man, but he did not feel he could ever be that person anymore. He could be nobody’s man, because he wasn’t even a man at all. He’d loved her and she loved him, he realized, but he could not bear the look of pain and pity in her eyes. That was just too much love, and not the kind Sigefrid was equipped to deal with. So he ordered for Alva to leave with the others, and when she whaled he just turned his back. Finally, it was Erik who grabbed Alva by the shoulders and whisked her away, and Sigefrid was grateful for it. It was better that way. One less thing to mourn.


End file.
